Get Stuffed

There are two things that I have not done
since arriving in Louisiana three days ago: take
a shit and attend the 35th annual New Orleans
Jazz and Heritage Festival. The latter--an
eight-day bacchanal featuring more than 500
performers from across the musical
spectrum--was originally supposed to be the
reason for my trip, but my dysfunctional
bowels are starting to overshadow any interest
in music. That's because the one activity that I
have been engaging in during the last 72
hours, with a devotion that would impress a
Carmelite nun, is eating.

Since stepping off the plane in Baton Rouge
and heading directly to Joe's "Dreyfus Store"
Restaurant for a lunch of pork tamales,
chicken smothered in crawfish and gravy, and
green beans (cooked until any possible
nutritional value had been neutralized), it's
been a nonstop trough feed. This is what I
consumed my first morning in Louisiana:
eggs, an English muffin, tasso sausage, ham,
pork boudin, more eggs, pickled pigs' lips,
and fruit. This is the first time in my life that
I've digested four different types of pork
products before 11:00 a.m. I'm starting to
worry about gout.

My failure to attend JazzFest is not entirely my
fault: The event on Friday, April 30--which
should have featured trumpet prodigy
Nicholas Payton and zydeco royalty
C.J. Chenier, among others--was
canceled because of torrential downpours.
And in between meals I've managed to see
quite a bit of music. In Lafayette on
Wednesday, the 28th, I took in a wonderful
acoustic set of skewed folk songs by Sam
Broussard, guitarist for Steve Riley and
the Mamou Playboys, on the outside deck of a
youth hostel/bar. The next night, at the Funky
Butt in New Orleans, I witnessed some tedious
jazz noodling by saxophonist Wes
Anderson and a handful of other guys
who have played with one or another member
of the Marsalis clan. And last night, Friday, I
listened to enough white-boy electric blues,
courtesy of Tab Benoit and
Sonny Landreth, to leave me
regretting that I was too bloated on crawfish
étouffée and beignets
(essentially fried dough covered in powdered
sugar) to get properly drunk.

But this morning, with less than 48 hours of
JazzFest remaining, I'm determined to finally
set foot on the Fair Grounds Race Course.
After a modest breakfast of salmon eggs
scramble, biscuits, and fruit, I set off with my
friends. There are 10 stages scattered across
the festival grounds featuring a bewildering
number of acts. The first music we witness is
some basic Cajun-flavored blues from
Sonny Bourg and the Bayou Blues Band. This holds our attention for roughly 15
minutes.

At the next stage we stumble across
Feufollet. They're a five-piece outfit
from Lafayette who look to have a cumulative
age of less than 80. An apple-cheeked beauty
is belting out tunes in French and occasionally
dinging a triangle. She's joined by two equally
winsome boy fiddlers who play with disarming
poise and skill. They're kind of like a Cajun
version of Nickel Creek.

We move on to a tent where the Chosen
Few Brass Band is saluting the late "Tuba
Fats" Lacen, a notorious New Orleans figure
who made his name playing in the city's
streets and funeral parades. Appropriately, the
band features a fabulous fat tuba player
spitting out bass notes. They blow through a
spirited version of "I'll Fly Away" while revelers
dance through the tent wielding elaborately
stitched umbrellas.

All their activity is making me hungry. The
food booths are even more baffling than the
musical selections. There are several cordons
of stalls offering every possible permutation of
po' boys and crawfish imaginable. I settle on a
bread bowl of oyster and artichoke stew. After
a regrettable set of generic electric blues by
Lil' Buck Sinegal, I'm back for a
heaping pile of fried chicken and potato salad.
And then--after napping through the "Cajun
Hank Williams," D.L. Menard, and a
token attempt to push through the crowds and
catch some of Santana--crawfish
beignets, oyster pie, and a crawfish sack. We
contemplate catching a bit of Lucky
Dube's old-school political reggae before
calling it a day, but the skies are about to
break open--as are our bellies.

Sunday morning I finally take a shit.
I also resolve to limit my caloric intake. We
arrive at the festival in midafternoon. It's still
cloudy and threatening to rain. I take in the
three-guitar rockabilly of Kenny Bill
Stinson and the ARK-LA-Mystics, but
grow bored after hearing them blaze through
"Hoochie Coochie Man" and "Johnny B. Goode."

I weaken and purchase a turkey andouille po'
boy. Roots rockers Reckless Kelly
are just starting up when I wander into the
racetrack paddock. They pull off a swell cover
of Richard Thompson's "1952 Vincent Black
Lightning," and immediately afterward the sun
comes out. The temperature immediately
jumps 10 degrees. Everyone begins cheering
and dancing.

Hugh Masekela is headlining the
Congo Square Stage. This year's festival is a
tribute to South Africa. The fiery 65-year-old
trumpeter, whose music helped inspire the
struggle against apartheid, seems a fitting act
to close things. Strangely, there's not much of
a crowd. Everyone seems to have opted for the
Neville Brothers. Or Dianne
Reeves.

Masekela begins awkwardly, distracted by
problems with his microphone. Throughout
the first two songs he engages in a frenetic
pantomime with the soundman, neglecting his
fluegelhorn play. Eventually Masekela settles
down. At one point, he lets loose a several-
minutes-long a capella scat/scream in some
language other than English that literally
yanks people out of their beach chairs. He's a
world-class, James Brown-caliber screamer.

Vusi Mahlasela, wielding an acoustic
guitar, joins Masekela on stage. He's a stout
man with a square jaw, and seems to shrink
from the stage next to the charismatic
Masekela. Mahlasela's voice is stunning,
though, sweeter than the key lime tart being
peddled nearby. He sings an inspirational tune
about the power of African music that would
be utterly cheesy if it wasn't so damn moving.

These two legends are then joined by fellow
South African Busi Mhlongo--who
somehow upstages both of them. She enters
wielding a three-foot-high wooden staff,
wearing an expression of stern
admonishment. Mhlongo circles the stage,
then leans down on the staff and shakes her
hips at the crowd. They scream as if those
hips are a magic talisman. The impact is even
more impressive when she opens her mouth.
Mhlongo's voice somehow oscillates between a
throaty growl and an ethereal, unnerving
falsetto. I have no clue what she's singing
about. It could be bowel movements and pork
products.
Regardless, it's beautiful.

As soon as the music ends, I become obsessed
with getting a colonic. The festival is over, and
I need someone to suck the toxins from my
system. Can anyone recommend a decent
colon hygienist?